25.

TO HERR HOFMEISTER,—­LEIPZIG.

Vienna, April 8, 1802.

Do you mean to go post-haste to the devil, gentlemen, by proposing that I should write such a sonata?  During the revolutionary fever, a thing of the kind might have been appropriate, but now, when everything is falling again into the beaten track, and Bonaparte has concluded a Concordat with the Pope—­such a sonata as this?  If it were a missa pro Sancta Maria a tre voci, or a vesper, &c., then I would at once take up my pen and write a Credo in unum, in gigantic semibreves.  But, good heavens! such a sonata, in this fresh dawning Christian epoch.  No, no!—­it won’t do, and I will have none of it.

Now for my answer in quickest tempo.  The lady can have a sonata from me, and I am willing to adopt the general outlines of her plan in an aesthetical point of view, without adhering to the keys named.  The price to be five ducats; for this sum she can keep the work a year for her own amusement, without either of us being entitled to publish it.  After the lapse of a year, the sonata to revert to me—­that is, I can and will then publish it, when, if she considers it any distinction, she may request me to dedicate it to her.

I now, gentlemen, commend you to the grace of God.  My Sonata [Op. 22] is well engraved, but you have been a fine time about it!  I hope you will usher my Septet into the world a little quicker, as the P——­ is waiting for it, and you know the Empress has it; and when there are in this imperial city people like ——­, I cannot be answerable for the result; so lose no time!

Herr ——­ [Mollo?] has lately published my Quartets [Op. 18] full of faults and errata, both large and small, which swarm in them like fish in the sea; that is, they are innumerable. Questo e un piacere per un autore—­this is what I call engraving [stechen, stinging] with a vengeance.[1] In truth, my skin is a mass of punctures and scratches from this fine edition of my Quartets!  Now farewell, and think of me as I do of you.  Till death, your faithful

L. V. BEETHOVEN.

[Footnote 1:  In reference to the musical piracy at that time very prevalent in Austria.]

26.[1]

TO MY BROTHERS CARL AND JOHANN BEETHOVEN.

Heiligenstadt, Oct. 6, 1802.

Oh! ye who think or declare me to be hostile, morose, and misanthropical, how unjust you are, and how little you know the secret cause of what appears thus to you!  My heart and mind were ever from childhood prone to the most tender feelings of affection, and I was always disposed to accomplish something great.  But you must remember that six years ago I was attacked by an incurable malady, aggravated by unskilful physicians, deluded from year to year, too, by the hope of relief, and at length forced to the conviction of a lasting affliction (the cure of which may go on for years, and perhaps after all prove impracticable).